


Cartography

by toesohnoes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-11
Updated: 2011-05-11
Packaged: 2017-10-19 07:00:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toesohnoes/pseuds/toesohnoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the night, Sherlock likes to map John's body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cartography

**Author's Note:**

> Written as part of the [Five Acts Meme](http://toestastegood.livejournal.com/598881.html).

His hand strokes the firm curve of John's calf as he sits at the foot of his bed, watching him sleep. John rests on his stomach, his face pressed against the pillow, lips slightly parted. Since taking his place in Sherlock's bed, John's nights have become more relaxed and comfortable. Sherlock has enjoyed observing the gradual change in his body language.

His hand slides down to John's ankle, sliding over the anklebone there. His fingertips are cold enough to make John stir in his sleep, but he doesn't wake. After a disturbed groan he settles down again.

Sherlock feels a twinge of satisfaction; he feels like a hunter with prey caught in his net. When he looks at John, something in his chest contracts. _His_. By accepting this room, by listening to Sherlock's brilliance, by accepting that first kiss, John handed himself over.

His hand strokes higher until he reaches the velvet skin at the back of John's knee, hair tickling against his hand as he moves. John's leg twitches as if it tickles, but Sherlock merely waits for it to calm once more.

His hand travels higher, over the strength of John's thighs to reach his brief-clad arse. Sherlock had been buried deep inside there earlier tonight. He travels over it, his fingers pressed against the crease between the globes, and over onto the small of John's back.

Through the cotton of John's loose t-shirt, he explores up his spine, his palm flat against his back. Every inch is his; everything before him belongs to him.

Sometimes, when they're on a crime scene, he is starting to find John highly distracting. The police like him in a way that they don't like Sherlock. They invite him to the pub and they pat him on the back and share jokes about what it must be like to live with the world's only consulting detective.

It leaves Sherlock possessed with the desire to keep John cloistered in the flat, away from invaders and pilfers. He wants to have John's gaze, attention and admiration exclusively to himself.

He's aware of the illogical basis behind these desires. For that reason, he has not followed through.

Instead, he spends his nights mapping his territory, chasing every inch of skin that belongs to him and cataloguing John's every move and reaction: if knowledge is power, he needs to know everything about John.

He reaches the nape of John's neck, where his long fingers curl neatly, when John half-turns his head, eyes opening a thin slit. "Sherlock," he mumbles. "Get some sleep."

Sherlock bows to nuzzle a kiss against the back of John's skull, allowing the scent of his hair to invade his senses. Only when he's done and overpowered does he listen to John, lying down next to him on the bed. Through a series of sleepy shuffles, John edges closer to him and drapes his limbs over Sherlock's lanky body.

He fits perfectly.


End file.
